THE SUMMER IS GONE

A nostalgic look at 90s childhood that struggles to surpass its sentimentality

那個無憂無慮的夏天，

那個一去不復返的

純真年代

S

et in the backdrop of the 1990s market reform in Inner Mongolia’s capital Hohhot， director Zhang Dalei’s Golden Horse Award-winning solo debut The Summer is Gone （《八月》） is a personal tribute to the era in the form of a bittersweet， but mostly static childhood memory.

Summer certainly speaks the film language of the classic Taiwanese New Wave， tapping into personal memory to trace social changes. Having also grabbed the FIPRESCI Prize， and most recently in April， this year’s Best Young Director at the China Film Directors’ Guild award， 35-year-old Zhang spent almost 10 years sporadically working on this autobiographical film， supporting himself with short movies and creative wedding videos. His efforts were finally rewarded with a limited mainland release in late March.

Faithfully mirroring the director’s own childhood， the story starts as 12-year-old Xiaolei enjoys his summer vacation while his mother， a teacher， tries to get him into a prestigious local middle school. His father， a film editor with a boyish lively personality， is reluctant to agree， arguing that a person should be able to earn a living relying on their talent， not the school they attend.

This belief is put to the test when the father’s work unit， the state-owned Inner Mongolia Film Studio， has its funding cut off amid a turbulent series of reforms aimed at weaning state-owned enterprises off the government teat； suddenly the studio is expected to find projects and investment on its own. Through the eyes of Xiaolei， we witness the once-united work collective gradually collapse and the effect this has on his family and those around them.

Shot beautifully in black and white， Zhang’s choice of palette is meant to reflect his view that the decade he grew up in was pure and simple in terms of people and social relationships， a point he has expressed repeatedly in various interviews， including one with Cinema World magazine. This explains why 1994， a year many associate with massive layoffs and economic suffering， is so affectionately treated in the film.

Having grown up among friends and neighbors who staffed Hohhot’s film industry， Zhang later attended the St. Petersburg State University of Film and Television， which， thanks to Russia’s withering movie industry， offered an education with a rich artistic tradition but relatively small commercial influence.

Zhang’s depiction of his hometown， a city usually associated with scorching summer sunshine and dry weather， is so peaceful that many Chinese audiences have mistaken it for a southern town. Apart from the Mongolian song “Mother” sung at a farewell dinner， there’s little sense of locality. Instead， a luster of tender reminiscence lingers over scenes of families losing their income， relatives quarrelling， teens being bullied， and a bed-ridden grandmother. Through the eyes of Summer’s carefree protagonist， all are remembered fondly； even the film’s tagline is “Hold on to the good times.” Summer reflects Zhang’s dream to return to a simpler time， a “golden age” where conflicts are generally resolved peacefully， and complications—such as being turfed out of a comfortable rice bowl and forced to pursue individual fortunes—belong to a more recent era.

As a member of the post-80s generation， more at peace with recent history than its predecessors， Zhang’s autobiographical style recalls Taiwanese director Hou Hsiao-hsien’s early work The Time to Live and the Time to Die （《童年往事》， 1986）， which won a Golden Horse for Best Original Script a little over three decades ago. Hou’s film was also based on his own experiences of growing up in the 1940s， when ties between Taiwan and the mainland were severed. But while the cinematography is similarly poetic， Hou’s gaze is bitterly honest on generation gaps， growing pains， and the impact of a particular social environment on individuals.

Another festival favorite， Hong Kong director Alex Law’s Echoes of the Rainbow （《歲月神偷》， 2009）， which won Best Film in the Generation Kplus category at the 2010 Berlin International Film Festival， drew on a childhood spent in 1960s and 70s Hong Kong under colonial government， warily viewing events on the mainland such as the Cultural Revolution. While everyday life takes on a fairytale-like quality for the child protagonist， Law is unflinching in detailing the everyday racism， pressures to survive， and bitterness of death.

It’s this lack of personal growth that’s at the center of Summer’s problem. Both the central male roles seem to merely bob with the tide amidst tumultuous changes； it’s Xiaolei’s mother， a supporting role， who does most of the heaving lifting in the plot. Near the end， there’s a scene where the family’s broad-leaved orchid cactus finally blossoms； its brief florescence is supposed to signify the fleeting summer as a cherished memory. Perhaps it’s more fitting as a metaphor for the whole film—an exquisite personal story， evoking the childhood memories of a generation， but as transient and illusory as the passing season.

- LIU JUE （劉玨）

The upheavals caused by major reform at a film studio begin with an official announcement that the company’s state support is coming to an end：

To all staff at our film studio， after this summer games， our studio will officially become a joint-stock system company.

Di3ny@ngch2ng de qu1nt@ zh！g4ngmen， j～nti`n ynd7nghu# zh～h7u， z1nmen ch2ng ji g2ich9ng g^f-nzh# le.

電影廠的全體職工們，今天運動會之后，咱們廠就改成股份制了。

Lifelong jobs will no longer exist. What you’ll eat depends on your ability.

D2 p7 le ti0f3nw2n， z1nmen jiy3o k3o z#j@ de zh8n b0nshi ch～f3n le.

打破了鐵飯碗，咱們就要靠自己的真本事吃飯了。

I hope you’ll all make good use of your abilities and have a bright future.

X～w3ng d3ji` d4u n9ng f`hu～ z#j@ de n9ngl#， d4u n9ng y6u ge h2o f`zh2n.

希望大家都能發(fā)揮自己的能力，都能有個好發(fā)展。

At the same time， I hope with those with talents still remember our studio and continue to make money with us.

T5ngsh！ y0 x～w3ng y6u n9ngl# de t5ngzh#， h1i n9ng xi2ngzhe z1nmen ch2ng， du4 w-i z1nmen ch2ng m5u f%l#.

同時也希望有能力的同志，還能想著咱們廠，多為咱們廠謀福利。

MR. DONKEY

Indie farce offers a historical study in modern corruption

透過荒誕的黑色幽默

看現(xiàn)實世界

B

ased on their stage play of the same name， Zhou Shen and Liu Lu’s no-frills hit Mr. Donkey

（《驢得水》） is not just a smoldering critique of corruption within modern society. It may represent a precedent for homegrown comedies to match， and in some cases outstrip， their Hollywood counterparts.

While Hollywood hits like Logan， Arrival， and Resident Evil have dominated the Chinese box office this year—nine of the 10 top-grossing hits of 2017 so far have been Hollywood productions—the film market has undergone several changes over the past few years. These have included the sleeper success of nonstate-backed Chinese films such as Lost in Thailand （《泰 》， 2013） and The Mermaid （《美人魚》， 2016）， which raked in 208 million USD and 553 million USD respectively， and gave hopes to the country’s stagnating film industry （The Mermaid， Stephen Chow’s environmentalist comedy epic， still holds the number-one gross earnings spot， above Furious 7）.

Enter Zhou and Liu’s Mr. Donkey， a low-budget look into the human and emotional roots of corruption that quickly exploded into the market， earning rave reviews from critics and audiences alike. The film’s dark humor， punchy delivery， and witty script quickly made it last year’s highest-rated movie on China’s IMBD equivalent Douban， garnering an impressive 8.3 out of 10. Its success has prompted a revival of the original play， most recently in Beijing in April， as well as interest in the commercial possibilities of independent film.

Recently， the greatest upsets in the industry have not come from massive productions going head-to-head， but low budget New Wave directors going gold： the serial killer thriller Black Coal， Thin Ice （《白日煙火》， 2014） garnered both awards （including a Golden Bear） and commercial success internationally and at home， while Jia Zhangke’s A Touch of Sin （《天注定》， 2013） was widely admired in China， despite never being approved for domestic box-office consumption. Meanwhile Zhang Yimou’s sci-fi fantasy opera The Great Wall （《長城》）， replete with 3D visuals and a ponytailed Matt Damon， was so widely panned that People’s Daily claimed that reviewers’ negative criticisms were causing “serious harm to the Chinese film environment.”

Initially written for film， directors Zhou and Liu were found to adapt the script for Mr. Donkey for the stage due to lack of money， then turned it back into a screenplay after a successful theatrical run. The film is set in 1942 in a remote rural village in China. There， a school administration team is struggling to find funding， as their school is defunct and bereft of students.

In the first act， they find a potential saving grace： by naming the titular pack beast， which brings them water daily， as an English teacher， the protagonists are able to procure additional funding. But they are inevitably drawn， too， into a web of lies and deceit. The farce thickens when a government administrator decides to pay a visit， forcing the teachers to see their improvised plan （and own foibles） to the bitter end： One teacher has digestion problems， another is hot-tempered， the dean is trying to raise a daughter， while their solution is dress up an illiterate local coppersmith—who can speak Mongolian—to play the “English teacher.”

The second act sees the unraveling of these characters and their lives， and the plot quickly sheds its comedic nature， as each character becomes a study of identity and greed under duress. The government official， too， has his own bad habits， in this case “the optimal allocation of resources，” namely taking backhanders.

While classified as a comedy， the movie is a not-so-subtle look at how rational acts of self-interest can quickly become absurd， especially when looking at how the film portrays government and modern society. The directors are able to get away with such scathing critiques of greed and corruption by presenting its present-day commentary in a historical setting， in this case the Republic of China.

Regulations in the Chinese film market have limited foreign imports in order to boost Chinese films’ rankings. But the fact that smaller productions that eschew the cookie-cutter mainstream culture are slugging it out with American and Chinese films for the top-earner spot is a testament to the strength and progress of China’s domestic talents.

While Mr. Donkey is an independent film， its message has resonated with such magnitude it has shot to instant fame. It is a relevant and timely commentary on the concerns of the everyman and woman， especially regarding corruption and the individual’s place within the rule of law. The conversation it started should not be ignored.

- TERENCE HSIEH （謝燕輝）

After helping to convince the inspector of his English teaching bona fides， the coppersmith feels slighted and betrayed by the scheming teachers. He returns to give a speech about the value of education and dignity.

I remember the first time I arrived at the school， the headmaster told me， “Education for all without discrimination，” everyone should be educated.

W6 j#de w6 d# y～ c# l1id3o zh-ge xu9xi3o sh！， xi3ozh2ng g3osu w6， y6u ji3o w% l-i， r9nr9n d4u y～ngg`i ji8sh7u ji3oy.

我記得我第一次來到這個學校時，校長告訴我，有教無類，人人都應該接受教育。

I also met a coppersmith here once， who did his part with honesty. But just because he hadn’t been educated growing up， he was looked down upon， bullied， and used， after which he was scolded to his face.

W6 y0 c9ngj～ng ji3nguo zh-li de y！ ge t5ngji3ng， t` h0n b0nfen， k0 jishi y～nw-i c5ng xi2o m9iy6u sh7u gu7 ji3oy， ji b-i r9n k3nbuq@， b-i r9n q～fu， b-i r9n l#y7ng， b-i r9n l#y7ng w1n le， h1i zh@zhe b！zi m3.

我也曾經(jīng)見過這里的一個銅匠，他很本分，可就是因為從小沒受過教育，就被人看不起，被人欺負，被人利用，被人利用完了，還指著鼻子罵。

I hope his children won’t suffer like him. So this money should be used for education； I won’t take a cent.

W6 x～w3ng t` de h7ud3i b%y3o xi3ng t` y！y3ng， su6y@ zh- b@ qi1n ji y～ngg`i y7ng z3i ji3oy shang， w6 y# f8n y0 b%y3o.

我希望他的后代不要像他一樣，所以這筆錢就應該用在教育上，我一分都不要。